The thing is unsatisfactory.
Something still is not quite right.
So I will keep smoothing, spinning, shaping.
And maybe, in the end, I will collapse, press in,
put the whole mess back into a form
in which I can begin again,
deftly forming, patient until the beauty
of my intention takes hold.
this acceptance of unwholeness, of always
This bewildering spin and the press
of the quick strong hands,
the pain of collapse.
In the end one must simply